The Traitors' Gate

  “Tuckum asked me the same question,” said the inspector. “I assure you, there’s no such inspector.” He took a deep breath. “Wery well, Master John ’Uffam, I’ll go along with it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then we have a plan,” said Tuckum.

  Sary clapped her hands.

  With everything agreed upon, Inspector Ratchet said his farewells, climbed into his Hansom cab, and went off into the cold, rainy night.

  “Now, Master John,” said Mr. Tuckum once the chief inspector had departed, “you may have your former room. Mistress Sary, Master John can show you where his mother and sister slept. Take up candles. You’ll not be charged for your accommodation. Not tonight. I admire you both. You’re doing a good deed—in the bravest, most old-fashioned way. Sleep well.”

  With that, he went off to his rooms—wherever they were—leaving Sary and me alone.

  At first we were silent, watching the fire dwindle down.

  “Did you ’ear that? That Mr. Tuckum, ’e called me distress.’ Never card that afore.”

  I said to her, “I had no idea you knew so much. Do you have any more secrets?”

  As always, she grinned. “I’m a professional sneak, ain’t I? Got plenty o’ secrets. But if you think I’m tellin’ you, you best ’ave other thoughts. Anyways, you’ve got yer own secret—the plan. Goin’ to tell me where it is?”

  It was only what I expected her to say. I shook my head and laughed. Then I grew serious. “But … I’m nervous about this. Did you mean it when you said you’d help protect me?”

  “On me ’eart an ’onor as a sneak!”

  I led her to her room. “It’s as good as the Queens palace,” she announced when she looked it over. “Where’s the privy?”

  “Out back,” I told her.

  “Outside?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “No complaint. Bed, room, food in the belly. It’s eaven. Or maybe”—with a sly look at me—“Ali Baba land.”

  Leaving Sary bouncing on the bed, I went to my room, blew out the candle, and lay back.

  As I rested, I heard someone walk along the balcony. Sary, I assumed. I decided to keep awake until I heard her return: Me protecting her.

  Then I suddenly recalled a question we had not answered: Who was Inspector Copperfield?

  Thinking about that, I fell asleep.

  And did not hear Sary return.

  CHAPTER 41

  I Discover the Real Traitor

  Awaking in the morning darkness, I immediately put my mind to Old Moldy: Could he truly be the man behind my father’s misfortunes? For having already come to hate the schoolmaster, I made myself admit it was pleasing to contemplate a greater reason to do so.

  Then, recalling my mother’s words about responsibility, I checked myself. Whatever Sergeant Muldspoon was, he had not caused my father’s tribulations. Father—with his gambling—did that for himself. Old Moldy’s crime was to take cruel advantage of my father’s predicament.

  Indeed, even when we solved this problem of spies, there would still remain—Father said so himself—the three hundred pounds he owed. Though his troubles had become connected, the resolution of each was separate. The only possible help I could provide remained with Great-Aunt Euphemia. I must—in the words of Mr. Snugsbe—fit within the coat that had been cut for me.

  I took the rifling plan from my jacket pocket, unfolded it, and gazed at it. Even though I was aware it was of great value to many, its maze of swirling lines and arithmetic equations remained incomprehensible to me. I refolded the sheet of paper, pressed it flat, and returned it to an inner jacket pocket, over my heart.

  I got up, used the privy, and then stepped out of the inn’s front door to gauge the day’s weather. The air was the color of iron and just as cold. While it was no longer raining, courtyard puddles were veneered with ice. The morning light grew apace, but the omnipresent and dreary fog was thick enough to make the solitary gas lamp near Halfmoon Alley appear nothing more than a smudge.

  I’m not sure how long it took me to notice that a man, perhaps twenty yards away, was standing in wait—indeed, looking right at me. Staring at me. It took a further moment for me to realize he was none other than the tall man with the low-brimmed hat and false beard, the man who called himself Inspector Copperfield.

  Even as I grasped who was there, he pointed his umbrella right at me and shouted, “Be warned!” Then he turned about and immediately dashed away.

  I ran after him only to slip on the pavement ice. It was hardly more than a stumble, but I needed a moment to right myself. When I reached the end of the court, I looked both ways along Halfmoon Street. I saw people in the fog, but only vaguely, and no one I could identify as the man I sought.

  Discouraged, angry at myself that I’d faltered, I made my way back toward the inn only to abruptly stop halfway. How, I asked myself, had this Inspector Copperfield even known I was at the inn? Someone must have told him. But if someone had told him, the next question was obvious: Who? Who knew I was going to stop there for the night?

  Thoughts rushed upon me.

  The evening before, at the debtors’ prison, I had been evasive about where I intended to stay because, at the time, I thought it would be at the rookery. Indeed, Mr. Tuckum had invited me to stay at the inn, but I had declined—publicly. That meant neither my family nor Mr. Farquatt knew where I would eventually stay. As for Brigit, I told her I’d be with Sergeant Muldspoon. In fact, as I now recalled, I’d decided to stop at the inn only after I’d left the prison. In other words, the only ones who knew I was there were Inspector Ratchet, Mr. Tuckum, and … Sary.

  Sary!

  Suddenly feeling sick, I entered the inn, took a seat before the cold fire, and gave myself over to hard thinking.

  Mind, at that point I was suspicious of everyone, even Inspector Ratchet. Had he not ensnared my father in this nasty business? Yet it was beyond even my imagination to think the inspector had anything to do with this false Inspector Copperfield.

  For his part, Mr. Tuckum was a trusted colleague of Ratchet’s. As for being Inspector Copperfield, the roly-poly bailiff could not possibly disguise himself as the tall, thin man who had accosted me. So he, too, was an unlikely suspect.

  That left only Sary. Not that she was Copperfield, but—

  I could feel myself trembling. It was as if a small hole had been made in a dam, and the escaping water, first trickling, quickly grew forceful enough to smash the dam itself. So it was with my suspicions. For—as I had recently discovered—it was Sary who had begun this whole affair by alerting the police to what my foolish father was attempting: the selling of the rifling plan.

  It was Sary who had hidden from me—from the beginning—that she worked with Ratchet. In so doing, not only had she brought the chief inspector to my father, but that policeman had aimed O’Doul at Father too.

  It was Sary who had sneaked after me, leading me to believe—at first—that it was Mr. O’Doul rather than Brigit who had hired her to do so.

  It was Sary who had instigated our friendship by offering to sneak for me.

  And it was Sary who said she had seen the O’Douls with Sergeant Muldspoon. But—I now realized as well—I had only her word for that.

  Then too it was Sary who had pushed my suspicions to Old Moldy.

  And it was Sary who said there was no such place as the Credit Bordeaux, where Mr. Farquatt was employed. Was that true? Had she lied?

  Just the night before when I asked her if she had any more secrets, what did she say? I’m a professional sneak, ain’t I? Got plenty o’ secrets. But if you think I’m tellin’ you, you best ’ave other thoughts.

  And it was Sary who said she would protect me!

  She could hardly want the secret for herself. But, I thought, what if there really was someone else—maybe this Inspector Copperfield—behind it all? Did not Ratchet say he was likely a spy? What if Sary was working with him, if all she’d done was meant to turn me from the real culprit
? Indeed, as I thought upon it, I realized that Copperfield was the one person Sary had not accused! Was not that, all things considered, reason enough for suspicion?

  Had I not heard her leave her room the night before? Might not she have met with Copperfield and told him where I was? Told him of the plan so that he could be forewarned?

  If all of this was true, then Sary—as far as I was concerned—was the real traitor.

  The chill I felt—the chill of realizing such betrayal—had nothing to do with the inclement weather or the cold hearth.

  In my rising anger I determined upon a course of action: Yes, I would go to Sergeant Muldspoon. Yes, I would tell him my father was willing to sell him the plan. Then, when he refused to take the bait, as I was now certain he would refuse, I’d have proof that all Sary had said was untrue. With that knowledge, I’d go straight to Inspector Ratchet and inform him that he, too, had been deceived by Sary the Sneak.

  Except at that moment Sary herself appeared on the steps.

  “Good mornin to you,” she called in her usual cheerful voice.

  Not able to even look at her, I offered a curt “Good morning.”

  “I never slept so fine afore,” she said.

  I made no answer and thereby must have revealed some of my mood.

  She paused on the lower step. “’As somethin’ ’appened?”

  “No,” I said, trying to act as if nothing had. I stood up. “I need to go to work.”

  “To the church?”

  “Yes.”

  After a moment she said, “When do you go to yer old teacher?”

  “When I can,” I replied, forcing myself to face her.

  She gazed at me. There was no grin now. “An when,” she asked, “an where are we two goin to meet up with yer news about what yer teacher says?”

  “You heard what we agreed,” I said. “I’ll offer to make the secret available to Sergeant Muldspoon at eight o’clock tonight at All Hallows.”

  “An’ me?”

  My anger overwhelmed me. “As it happens,” I blurted out, “I’ve no need for you at all.” Avoiding her questioning eyes, I rushed off without any further words.

  I made my way in haste. Having no pennies for the omnibus, I had to walk and run. At some point along Fleet Street—I’m not even sure where—I happened to look up. What I saw was a building to which was affixed a sign:

  Mr. Farquatt’s place of work!

  Did I need any more proof that Sary had lied to me? I think not. But as I went on, whether the wetness on my face was from braving the fog or from tears, I could hardly tell.

  CHAPTER 42

  I Meet with Sergeant Muldspoon

  I was very glad to reach All Hallows Church. The rain had begun to fall again, a steady drizzle that left me clammy and cold without. I was wretched enough within.

  The early-morning service had just been concluded. Wanting to report to Mr. Snugsbe as soon as possible—so that he would know I’d come on time—I wandered among the pews. I found him in the south side, or, at least, I found his greatcoat. It was the shock of curly white hair that crested the coat’s collar that encouraged me to believe the rest of him was inside.

  Feeling less bashful than previously, I took the liberty of pulling at his sleeve. “Mr. Snugsbe, sir,” I said. “It’s me, John Huffam.”

  I had to jostle him a number of times before his head rose slowly up on his scrawny neck, his face as red and wrinkled as that of an organ-grinder’s street monkey. He looked round, fastened his beady, blinking eyes on me. “Ah, it’s you,” he whispered. “Once again you have uncovered Mr. Snugsbe. What do you intend to do with him today?”

  “I’m reporting for work, sir.”

  “Staying within your coat,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. I’m trying to.”

  “A good thing too.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  “Last evening, shortly after you left, Mr. Nottingham came round to see Mr. Snugsbe. He wanted to know the everything of anything you did ill.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That your coat has been designed, cut, stitched, and fits perfectly. There is—as yet—nothing askew.”

  “And what was his response?”

  “Disappointment.”

  “Mr. Snugsbe,” I said, feeling much pent-up exasperation, “do you know why Mr. Nottingham is so set against me? Is it merely because of what my father wrote about him?”

  Mr. Snugsbe shook his head. “The man is jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “You.”

  “Me! But why?”

  “Mr. Nottingham has long sought promotion by your relation, Lady Euphemia Huffam. To achieve that, he believes he must push your father aside. He did. Then you appear—I’m told you look much like your father—so he worries you will engage her affections. Which is to say, he worries Lady Huffam will alter his coat.”

  Recalling how my great-great-aunt had abused my father, I said, “I assure you, sir, she made it very clear that she has no intention of helping me and that Mr. Nottingham is very strong with her.”

  “But she has helped you,” he whispered.

  I thought of William/Wilkie.

  He went on: “In his long and mostly useless life Mr. Snugsbe has discovered that the easiest way to know a mans weakness is to know his fears. Mr. Nottingham fears rejection. I fear being outside my coat.” To prove his point, he retreated into it.

  “Mr. Snugsbe!” I called.

  “Mr. Snugsbe is attentive,” came a voice from within the coat.

  “Have you ever heard of an establishment called the Credit Bordeaux?”

  “It’s a large French banking establishment in the City. Off Fleet Street.”

  By then—for I had discovered that myself—it was not a revelation. But hearing it confirmed brought such deep pain that, given the choice, I would have vanished into my own coat.

  When, out of necessity, I summoned Mr. Snugsbe up again, he set me to cleaning the pulpit with a small bottle of oil—oil he took pains to assure me was not of a sacred nature, but derived solely from barley seed.

  So it was, with rag in hand, that I worked with a will all that morning, wanting—more than anything—to obliterate my sadness with effort. Gradually, my clothing dried. My chill eased. At mid-morning Mr. Snugsbe was kind enough to bring me bread, butter, and some hot tea.

  Even as I brooded over what that curious gentleman had said about Mr. Nottingham, I forced myself to, one, not think about Sary and, two, to think about Sergeant Muldspoon. I had to decide at what point I might suggest to Mr. Snugsbe that I’d an errand to run, then what I’d say to the harsh schoolmaster.

  By then I was quite convinced that he would dismiss me with sarcasm and contempt, if not a caning. That would be painful enough. But that dismissal would leave me with no other course of action than to go to Inspector Ratchet and denounce Sary. Though convinced of her treachery, it was the revelation I dreaded.

  Although desiring not to think about Sary, I did conjure up a possible motive for her vile actions: Perhaps she wanted to be caught, charged, found guilty, so as to be transported to Australia. It was not uncommon for imprisoned children to be sent there. By such means, she could rejoin her father. I’d witnessed her fury about the matter with Ratchet. And once again I recalled Brigit’s words: Master John, to live, a people will do whatever they need to do. Sary might well have substituted the word “love” for “live.”

  Yet, while understanding Sary’s feelings of loss about her father, I could not condone her way of addressing them. As far as I was concerned, she was the villain in the case, a traitor to me.

  When Mr. Snugsbe suggested that the time for lunch had arrived, I asked, “Please, sir, I have an errand to do on behalf of my father. Might I attend to that instead of lunch?”

  “How long will it require?”

  “Not long.”

  “It will be fine, but Mr. Snugsbe gives warning: It’s more than likely that Mr. Nottingham will
come here again, so as to determine if you’ve slipped out of your coat. Therefore, Mr. Snugsbe suggests you complete your errand quickly and return.”

  “Yes, sir, you may be sure I will.”

  In fact, I waited till mid-afternoon, when I was certain the sergeant would be back in the classroom. Then, alerting Mr. Snugsbe that I was going, I headed off, running all the way.

  Happily, the rain had eased and the air felt somewhat warmer, so I had no worries about slipping on ice. I was soon panting beneath the school sign: MULDSPOON’S MILITANTLY MOTIVATED ACADEMY. I could even hear the boys chanting within:

  “B-A-T-T-L-E spells ‘battle’!”

  I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. It was, as usual, extremely gloomy in the classroom, with only the oil lamp on the master’s desk to provide some feeble glow, thereby leaving the students as unenlightened as ever.

  Sergeant Muldspoon was also the same, standing perfectly balanced, stiff and upright, on his one flesh leg and his wooden one next to the gray slate, his twitching cane in hand.

  The moment I walked in, a hush—a hush deeper than normally filled that room—descended. My classmates—with a flagrant disregard for the conduct of Old Moldy’s educational war—turned as one to look at me.

  So did Sergeant Muldspoon.

  I gazed at him. He gazed at me. For some reason I focused my eyes on his reddish nose—perhaps because I could not abide the ferocity of his cruel eyes. If the truth be known, only then did I fully realize how much he frightened me. I recalled Mr. Tuckum’s question as to his violent nature. I had no doubt then, looking at him, that he was a violent man, like a charge of gunpowder ready to explode. That red nose of his, which I had thought of as a garden strawberry, I now thought of as a burning fuse.

  “Please … sir …,” I began.

  “What have we here?” he snapped, cutting me off as if he had taken a rapier to my words and sliced them up like a carrot. “I do believe it is Master Huffam. Young gentleman Master Huffam. Master Huffam who is a deserter in his war against ignorance!”